Wanting, Chasing and Having
by Taboo-but-tasty
Summary: 3 chaps. Wat ponders on his longings, Geoff makes bets to himself that he's ready to act on and the results are hotter than the flames of Chaucers candles. Wat/Chaucer
1. Chapter 1 Wat Wants

A/N: Ok, this is my first AKT fanfiction and likely my only, though I love the Chaucer and Wat romance and beloved characters. My Wat and even my Chaucer are probably going to be ooc but oh well. I did make Wats thoughts sound intelligent and the likes.

Warnings: This is Wat/Chaucer Slash. Mature content is just about guaranteed; I don't shy from the smut, so if you don't like, beware.

(This chapter is in Wats POV btw.)

Chapter 1: Wat Wants

When I was to pass on the kiss from Lady Jocelyn to Will, I was tempted not to at all, even though I couldn't help but follow the request through. Even when I had the last minute debate whether or not I should do it, I really had to force myself to remember my loyalty to my good friend. It wasn't quite his lips that made me nervous, or how I had to kiss his lips, or how I thought he might react. It was none of that. I couldn't even have had a small fear of how he would react, for I knew he wouldn't care. Especially since he knew it came from Jocelyn's lips through mine. I wasn't disgusted by having to pass on the kiss; that wasn't what had my brain fonging itself.

It was blue eyes, clear like broken glass, and blonde hair that was lighter than on Wills own head. It was a watching gaze that awaited the news from Jocelyn, though not as heatedly as Will. It was my being afraid on how he would react. Yes he, you must know I'm talking of Chaucer. My words come out chopped and short and not as pretty as his, which fills me with a full want to Fong him, because in my head I have thoughts and expressions and I try hard to sound as fancy and romantic as he does; by the time I get the words to my lips I can't put them together and I end up tripping on them. Even if I can never sound or truly be as witty and clever as him, I'm distracted by his words, by the look in his eyes that never dies. The look that I've seen, since even when I first saw him in all his naked glory walking down the dirt road, that has yet to vanish from his face. So yes, I was worried of his watching eyes.

He's a, well, a writer is what he called himself. So it didn't worry me that he might be as disgusted as I should have been at the moment. When I actually think more on it, I know there was no reason for me to have cared, especially how it all turned out. Though with even more thinking and some simple drinking on my part to loosen my own thoughts, I realized that my mind fonged itself because even then, the reason I cared about what Chaucer would think was because I didn't want him to see me kiss anyone else, or even know that Jocelyn had given me her kiss to pass along. The dreams I had at night that were against what holiness I've learned, made me feel small and guilty of having Chaucer witness me with anyone else.

I'm not a writer, I don't write poems or speak his fancy words that fly out too fast for me to fully grasp, and swoons the crowds. I'm not trying to pretend to be, but I know I am smarter then I'm looked at as. My passion just fuels me fist, not my tongue.

Later when Will became a Sir of his own heritage, and Jocelyn his rightful bride, I wasn't sure what was happening. It was my mind fonging itself over and over at every turn. It was only so long before it became awkward for me to try to turn the fongings onto Geoff, every time I'd swing my fist at a snarky remark, I'd get distracted by the amused shine that glossed his eyes at his own wits, or the coy smirks that turned his lips, and my first would hit it's mark with a weakened blow. Even I could tell by the sideways glances from Roland and the curious eyes of Geoff that the lack of passion in my fists was beginning to get noticed. I tried not to actually hit him, but to threaten him instead; it was easier for me to appear myself and unaffected when I could just take him by his shirt collar and give him a shake. Though even that would only last so long until I'd notice the feel of his skin against my knuckles and the beats of his heart. My palms would sweat against his shirt fabric and my words would form even choppier as I forced fresh threats and promises of fongings out before I would storm away from him. Never before did I take so many times to thank my face for filling with blood so easily from yelling; it stopped anyone from seeing the shameful sight of me actually blushing like any frail woman with crushes.

Soon I couldn't stand the way the daily routines were turning. Will and Jocelyn fought over how to live, and me and Roland fought over whether it was time we left for our ways. He agreed with Jocelyn that Will had said he'd settle down. This meant that we, other than being friends were not needed. Will on the other side wanted to keep our gang, keep to our adventures. They were the adventures that I lived for, despite risk of poorness and hunger. They were adventures that kept me with what little of friends and family I had. It kept me close to Chaucer who I'd grown to like and admire as much as he fueled my own anger and passion. We even had Kate who was quite stern and quiet sulking around, waiting for us to disband and leave her as alone as she was when her late husband had died.

I was scared; Chaucer's critic comments and lively bursts were the only things keeping us lively with what had become normal. Day and day passed and I was trying not to look at Chaucer with such meaningful looks, or put too much thought into the words he directly spoke to me. But the more I tried not to, the more he seemed to be around me, the more I realized I could lose the comfort of his teasing and my ability to secretly enjoy his touch through my threats. I'd be left traveling with my unpretty words and anger and my dreams would be hollow.

Finally Kate had snapped. It had happened suddenly, but when I asked Roland he said he had seen it coming. An agreement was made. My heart and mind fonged each other. My passion that had so earlier left my fists had trapped itself in my heart and now I had to realize that with the news that we'd travel a year before we'd all settle, together or apart, that instead of losing Chaucer, and my best friends, I had to live with them. Travel with them. I had to chance finding a naked Chaucer fishing for money in our tents to pay off his debts. I had to either find an excuse to stop fonging him all together or confront the twists he made my gut feel. I didn't think I could do either.

So now only a month into the promised year, practicing for Will to enter more tournaments when the time comes, I find myself tent mates with Chaucer and Roland. Though I'm fearful with the way Christiana is eyeing Roland and the attention the faithful maiden of Jocelyn is getting form him. It will be only a short time before they earn a tent to themselves and I'm left with Chaucer. If he didn't have so many things about him that were both maddening and interesting, I could simply ignore him. But every night when it is completely dark, he sets up candles and writes down pretty words that he mutters out loud occasionally, while I throw in a threat or two for him to shut up or blow out the lights. Not because it annoys me like I say, but because his pretty words fall from his smooth lips like sweet wine and I can't concentrate on anything else. Well, some nights when the candles are low enough with Chaucer absorbed into his work and Roland not yet in or perhaps already snoring, I get distracted by Chaucer himself. The pretty words still flood my ears but my eyes are locked on the shadows cast on his face from the flickering flames. I notice everything, the shape of neck and the hollow at the base, the way his clothes hang off him in places, the blonde hair messed from his hand running through it and his eyes. Chaucer's eyes when he writes are livelier then when he talks. They show his own frustration, his own concern, amusement, pain and passion, always a passion. These nights I love and fear. They aren't as rare as I'd like to say, but if they were any more of a common occurrence than I'd be lost. Lost in his pretty words, and his, well, I might as well say it, his pretty face. If Roland leaves, these nights will e every night and my stares will eventually dig burn on him and he'll notice. And I fear, yes, I fear which makes me angry, that I will have no ability to stop even when I'm caught.

I admit I'm drawn to him, I want him. I have had plenty of women, but I've never had a sin, a man. My heart has ached before and I've fallen to a lover's mercy many times, enough times that I shouldn't want another, especially one that makes feel so much fire. But this fire isn't just the wish to fong him, but a fire that spreads from my fists to all of me and, honestly, I like it. As much as it makes e want to swing at him, I get the urge to take his lips and stake claim like no other ever could. I am not womanly and I don't claim that he is either. His narrow hips and his lean stomach do not belong to a woman but they beckon to me as if they did, like a woman's should.


	2. Chapter 2 Chaucer Chases

(Chaucer's POV)

Chapter 2: Chaucer Chases

He stares. We are alone and his heated gaze is hotter than the candle beside my face. Power, and passion, so much of it overwhelms me, and I fuel it into the words I write down on my paper. It's like gambling, I bet to myself how long he'll stare, when he'll finally sleep and how long I can attract his eyes to me. Like gambling, the power of the bet and counting on the personal control of me and my opponent is a fire in my veins, a mental game I desire to prove I can win. It's addicting. I've finally convinced Lady Christiana, with a few extra flourished poetic words from me, that she shouldn't wait for her own love while Jocelyn has hers already. Jocelyn had been wedded and it could be time that Christiana is also. When a man such as Roland waits patiently for the heart of a woman as gold as her to take a hold of him in ways he only wishes, she needs to take the opportunity to hold onto the man awaiting her gold heart with a heart of his own that is just as gold.

I am sure that tonight will be a night when Roland will have a maiden and her tent calling to him to be occupied rather than ending up back in our own tent. It is already pass the time of pitch darkness in the tent and my eyes fight to stay on my moving hand instead of wandering. The anticipation I've had building up to this day is heating my skin with passion and drawing the heat back out with fear. I'm quite set with my conclusion on how this night may likely play out but it is a conclusion based on prediction and chance, one that I could very well have wrong; I know for fact and experience that a bet you feel sure of can leave you with nothing, not even clothe on your back. Well, in all honestly, having no clothes on is exactly what I am betting on so that analogy may not be the right one to describe a failure of the conclusions that my watchful eyes have settled on.

I've been writing for an hour and I can see him moving out of the corner of my eye. I continue jotting down thoughts in fanciful words. I write a few more lines but focus on my peripheral vision, catching a glimpse of messy hair and the tangle of sheets he's got around him. The bare skin of his shoulders catches my sight and I pause. I feel him watching me and force my eyes shut before I can glance directly at him. I'm sure he's noticed that tonight I don't seem as lively when I write but I'm quite positive he doesn't realize that tonight will be out of the usual. I swallow and open my eyes back to my ink stained fingers, willing myself to ignore the fact that tonight Wat is even more distracting to me. I know I must keep myself completely keep myself in control as if I'm in another game, though I know that what I'm dealing with is far from such.

"I believe Roland is bedding an Angel, the lucky fellow, so we shan't stay up for him tonight."

At first there is no answer to my statement and for a moment I believe he has decided to feign being asleep. But I can hear his breathing and it is not the slow even breathes of when he dreams and I'm sure even he realizes it is obvious. Then I hear the sound of him clearing his throat. "Then go to bed if that is why you keep me up all night."

"I keep you up at night? Here I believed you were up for Roland to arrive or for my candles to blow out."

I try not to goad at him, but I know even simple remarks will get reactions from him tonight. I'm curious as I wait for a reply, I can hear him suck in his breath as he tries to find a response to my inquiry.

"That-That's not what I meant!"

"If the reasoning is not Roland or me as you say, then why every night do your eyes always stray to my face?" I didn't wait a breath before my response and I had to bite my inner lip not to say too much. Resisting the urge to turn to him as I sense him sitting up in his makeshift bed, I continue to watch my hand as I wait, placing the quill down and flexing my fingers in a casual manner. I hear noises of frustration leave his lips; I have a feeling he's clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Shut up already and blow out the candles before-! Before I fong you!" I have three candles lit tonight, and I consider his response and how I can use it to my advantage. "You wish for me to blow out my candles?"

I finally twist in my seat and turn to face him. There is only a little light in the tent and it glows fascinatingly off of his bare torso and makes the side of his face not shadowed look pale and glowing; his hair looking alive with flames and his eyes wide with raw emotion. Oh how I can only wonder how I was lucky to find a muse of such fine fire to set passion to my veins. I don't wait on him to respond, I can see him starting to bare his teeth. He's angry of course, but I can see it in his eyes, the way he's gritting his teeth more out of nervousness; through the candlelight I can see the top of his ears turning red before his neck does, a sure sign that his innate humility is building more than any burning rage.

I sweep one candle up in my hand, the flame wavering and causing a ripple effect to sweep through the room and play with the shadows on his face. I lift the flame to my lips and make sure to lock eyes with him. I want his eyes on me. I want to see his passion directed at me, such a lively muse I've got; my thoughts send a shiver through me and I let it rake my body, letting a wavering sigh escape my lips as my eyelids drop a fraction so that I'm left looking at Wat through my blonde lashes. I let my voice drop to whispering. "As you wish Master Fawlhurst."

At the end of my words I let an extra puff of air blow the candles flame quickly out. I glance down, slowly easing my gaze away from his, making sure I keep him watching my movements. There is a light stream of smoke that lasts for a couple seconds after the flame has died that I set my gaze onto. I let my tongue trace over my lips out of habit and for effect. With a sudden movement, I raise my gaze back to Wats, watching with interest as he tries his best to sneer at me even as his gaze flickers from my moist lips to my eyes. Without looking I put down my candle and reach for the two left. I hold them together in one palm, letting their wax melt together between them. I can feel the air around me change. It's thick and silent, I hold the candles below my face, letting their flickering light cast ominous shadows around my cheek bones and shine against my own eyes.

I cock my head to the side as I stand. I still have my favorite fur lined coat on and I let it sway around me as I take hasty yet precautious steps, holding my free hand out loftily as if parading myself out on a beam. My view drags the floor until I come to a stop barely a foot away. Letting just the starts of a smirk form on my lips, my free hand moves to rest on my knee as I bend over to be face to face with him. I move the candles between our faces. I'm close to him, close enough that the candle spread evenly between us reflects sharply in his blue eyes and I can feel the heat spread warmth over my lips.

"I have two flames left to blow out. If I only blow one out, there is still one to give me warmth while I'm awake and to symbolize the passion that I feel. If I blow it out two, then who will warm me Mr. Fawlhurst? If these flames are both disbanded then where will my passion go? I'll have no light to funnel my passion into writing. I'll be cold and alone, left in the dark with a passion I'm constantly fueled by."

I'm on a roll but I pause long enough to see if he's actually heard and understood my words, It takes a second before his eyes hold interest as well as just confusion. He opens his mouth but I have more to say before I will let him speak, even though no my eyes are distracted by the candle light on his lips.

"Going without these two flickering flames, as is what you request for, I request to make a request of my own. Instead of fonging me for your oh so many reasons that I'm sure you can list, you believe me when I say that you will be the reason my passion will not blow out with the flames and in the darkness it may grow stronger. In this darkness you will help me kindle new flames and a stronger fire so much brighter than that of the ones I'm to blow out."

I'm chewing on my lip now, I can't help it, my arms waver a bit but I grip the candles tight. I'm not sure right now what the response I will get from him will be, but I resist the urge to pull away. His eyes read that he has followed my words and is letting them digest in his brain, his shoulders stiffening and his back rigid; his mouth is less of a sneer and more of impression of an unsaid word left on lips.

It's a frozen moment where nothing moves, even the air holds still. And then, he blinks and I'm worried I've pushed it too far too soon, but there's no taking back the words and I still mean them exactly as I said. My breath quickens, my heart hammers, and his eyelids flutter as if trying to make real of everything. It takes only a couples seconds of our intermingled breath coming out at a heightened pace for the flickering lights to extinguish; with the first he flinches and his gaze flickers from the light to my eyes and It's my turn to flinch as his hand shoots up to wrap on my fist that's holding the candles.

I find myself focused on our hands, the warmth that floods into mine, making me realize how cold I am and how true my previous sentiments were. I'm not I feel a lick of warmth on my cheek and realize the candle is getting awfully close to my face, I'm not sure when our faces moved closer, but they have and I'm tempted to blow at the flame already, but I make myself wait. "Why?"

His voice sounds hoarse and clumsy; I have to refrain from smirking at the charming quality that I find so endearing. At first I believe he is referring to my thoughts of why I can't just blow out the last flame, but in a second I realize he means why I would request such a thing from him. "Why? I'll answer you this, Wat. Why is because I want to feel your passion in more than just your anger and I want you to feel the passion you create in me that I cannot express in words so late at night as I try to every night."

Darkness. Pitch black, but it doesn't matter, I made my bet when I picked up the first candle, a bet with myself, and now my eyes are closed. I'm not sure what moment the candles dropped, or even if the flame fully went out before they had. But as soon as I felt his sigh through the flame and against my lips, my fingers unfolded and refolded into his; and the candles dropped. My eyes are closed, but I'm moving, hoping I will not suddenly get "fonged" unless fonging has a double meaning I'm unaware of. I press myself against him, pushing him backwards onto the bed. He doesn't freeze when I finally get my lips to make contact with the skin along the side his jaw, or when I travel them up before sliding my mouth to meet his lips, my free hand moving to gently touch the curve if his neck.


	3. Chapter 3 Having Heat

Chapter 3: Having Heat

Once the kiss was initiated Wats hands did not keep idle in response, his mind screaming to himself that Geoff was asking for flames and passion, such an easy request for him to oblige. His hands move under Chaucer's shirt, nails trailing almost desperately at the smooth skin. Chaucer presses harder into the heated kiss, their lips bruising against each other and oh, how Wat had never realized how sensual the feel of leather and fur on a coat so lightly dragging across his bare skin could be.

The kiss breaks, but Chaucer's lips just barely stray from his, and the feel of hot moist breath grazing his wet lips causes him to resist from whimpering in need. He tugs up at the hem of Chaucer's shirt, desperate for more while it is being given. The shirt easily slides above Chaucer's head, but sticks at the sleeves.

"Impatient much, my muse, you should learn when to have control-" Here Chaucer pauses long enough to shrug out of his coat and finish pulling the shirt away from his body; Wat wants to hit him, and kiss him, and just touch him again already because a part of him feels that this moment will disappear and the other part just wants to know why such a beautiful man with beautiful words would want him in the same ways Wat craves. Before he can consider this too much, Chaucer has slipped a leg between his own, pushing with his thigh just enough to take away Wats breath and make his eyes roll from the teasing pressure. With Chaucer's lips against the freckled shell of his ear, Wat takes the opportunity to savor the feel of the others stubble grazing his cheek, a completely new sensation to him.

"As I was saying,-" Chaucer's voice is low and he's whispering, sending warm puffs of breath into his ear; it tickles and Wat can't help but squirm, resulting the leg between his thighs rubbing against him and he instinctively nips at Chaucer's jaw to suppress his moan. "you must learn when to be in control, and when to lose _all _your reserve." As if his words needed to be accentuated, Chaucer trailed the lightest touch of his fingertips up Wats side, creating shivers and chills to spread and send surges through him. Unconsciously his hands grip upwards, grasping at Chaucer's lithe form, his fingers slide deftly over the chill skin and lean muscle, until he takes hold of his shoulders.

In a movement that Wat himself wasn't even sure he saw coming, he flipped them over, realigning their bodies to where they were fully on the bed the proper way. It was Chaucer's turn to squirm under him as Wat rubbed his hands over the blonde's chest, marveling at how the firm and flat surface could be so erotic writhing beneath him. Tracing a pattern up Chaucer's chest, his neck, his cheek, Wat cups his face, pulling it closer to his own resulting in Chaucer lifting himself up on his elbows to comply with the proximity. "Can I forgo the control yet?"

"Master Fawlhurst, please, forgo control, forgo whatever you desire, just do not forgo your passion, just- uhm."

Wat really didn't care what Chaucer was going to say in his long winded response, all he was concerned about was forgoing all restraint; the fact that with only a small brush of his hand over the trousers had Chaucer speechless was just a plus in his venture. Chaucer's eyelids flutter and Wat figures he wants to make them do that often, it's quite attractive; so he continues undoing the strings on the trousers, making sure to enjoy the occasional brush of his fingers over the hard flesh beneath the fabric. When the trousers were undone and only a pull away from being yanked off, Wat paused to glance at the man. His powder blue eyes, half lidded watched him, one arm still slightly raised behind him for support, the other moved to rest on Wats waist, tugging him gently closer.

Wat felt as if even now Chaucer's gaze was full of words that he was, quite literally, biting his lip to suppress; for a strange reason, instead of being annoyed or irritated, he wanted to laugh. So he bent and hid his face as the smile broke through and pressed his grin into the spot below Geoff's belly button, his shoulders shaking in mirth as he let small chuckles escape him. Smooth, long arms wrapped around his neck and he could feel Chaucer shifting to sit up better to do so. "What is it?" Chaucer was innocently asking, which only served to prove more to Wat the wonderful quirks that made him unique. "Only you, Geoff, only you."

"Only I what?"

Wat pulled away a bit, sliding his arms around Chaucer's waist as he straightened out to face the herald himself. "Doesn't matter." Wats grin was still bright as he kissed Chaucer soundly before falling back into the bed with him. "Then what does matter, pray tell, my love?" It was as if the soft sound of Geoff's voice calling him as such had triggered something inside him.

Wat froze for only second, giving Chaucer a scare that something was wrong before his neck was being savagely attacked leaving him nothing but breathless, the bristle of hair on Wats chin tickled and set the nerves there on a pleasant hum. His eyes which had fallen shut, opened wide when he felt a hand cup him through his trousers, fondling him in a heated manner that had his body flushed in seconds from desire. But the hand didn't keep with the ministrations, instead it moved to his hip, rubbing soft circle with its thumb over the lightly jutting bone. "May I?"

The voice was hoarse and throaty and right against his ear and by Jove did Chaucer wish that at the moment his voice did not fail him because at that time he's sure he could right the best sonnets and poems and best anything he had ever written before. Instead his head nods mutely, eyes closed in anticipation as the hand moves to tug at the fabric until it slips to his knees. Lifting his legs to help kick away the offending material, Chaucer blindly runs his own hand down Wats side, finding the start of the trousers, (already undone too!), and returning the favor.

It was like an ache of electricity, it was hot and it nearly blinded him as their hips came together, bare and raw, and when Chaucer lifts his legs to wrap around Wats waist, thoughts came to Wat of what the extent of Chaucer's flexibility was and how much he loved it; and then Chaucer was rubbing at his chest, tweaking a nipple, biting at his neck with soft suckles. He felt Chaucer's length push against his as the man bucked his hips up just a fraction, the resulting sound that was somewhere between yelp and moan must have been something he liked, for soon after Wat felt Chaucer mimic the motion over to elicit the same sound once more. Wats eyes felt as if they wanted to roll to the back of his head, he was becoming sensitive and every touch, especially by Chaucer's talented hands and mouth, was making him needy and driving him mad.

Then he saw the look Chaucer had pulled away to give him, though before he was given the chance to ponder it, he felt Chaucer's hand cup at him, pulling his weeping member into a loose grip, but his hand was wet and he didn't have time to wonder how he missed when that had happened, because the oh so slick and feel so good sensations were hitting him all at once and he was bucking his hips without thinking.

Staring at the agape mouth above him, whom lips are swollen from use, Chaucer stops in his ministrations to let Wat calm for a second. "Do you want me? My body?" Wats response is limited to a grunt of agreement as he bites at his lips, desperately trying to focus on The blonde and not on the blonde's hand. "What of my soul?" This time Wat nods his head and gives Chaucer a familiar look of frustration and longing, (though this time not for the usual fonging) and Chaucer knows that to most this look wouldn't seem half as appealing as it does to him.

He has fingers prodding his mouth and at first he's confused, but as Wat tastes what is probably ink and even dirt, he realizes what is happening. Sliding his tongue over the digits he decides he likes the taste for the most part; Chaucer likes the feel of the warm mouth and soft tongue coating his fingers in a thick layer of saliva and he can't help but squirm a little in anticipation of what is to come. When Chaucer seems to feel that his fingers are saturated enough he pulls them away and Wat watches transfixed as Chaucer leads the digits to his entrance and Wat never knew that watching such an act could turn him on as much as it did. And then Chaucer is guiding him, but as soon as he's pressing against Chaucer, heated and tight, he doesn't need assistance.

Chaucer does an amazing thing with his legs, stretching them high enough up Wats waist the movement itself pushes Chaucer up over the moist tip and then before he knows it he's inside and it's a heat that is ridiculously good, better than any woman Wat had before had; flexibility never quite left Wat so breathless before. The groan that he heard, needy and raw, was directly from Chaucer's mouth and Wat was sure that the sound itself was almost better than the surrounding heat that seemed to strangle the pleasure out of him with every pulsating move Chaucer made.

Wat leans down, wanting to kiss and touch, and never before has he had such an urge to be so intimate. His lips smack against Chaucer's as he picks up his rhythm, Chaucer's hips directing him in the desired speed. He feels Chaucer's teeth bite on his bottom lip as an undignified noise comes from him and it feels Wat with a power that he thoroughly enjoys. The slight throb of pain, instead of bothering him, drives a new set of urges through him and clings to Chaucer's elevated hips, his lips rubbing down his lover's cheek and neck before suckling at a fine spot of pale flesh, taking it into his mouth and biting it enough to make Chaucer yowl, but not quite in pain. His nails are piercing his hips but he doesn't bother to let go, the feel of the sharp bones and curved behind rubbing in his palms adds to the sensations that reap at his control.

It's not very romantic but it is full of passion and as Chaucer glances through lust drugged eyes up into Wats euphoric face he knows this is how he wants it, how he wants Wat, lively and needy, raw and real and with him. The feel of Wat driving him into the blankets, hitting the sweet spot inside him that he can't help but admire, he bites his lips raw between kisses and his tongue is dry and his head is hot but his nipples perk from the chill on his naked body as he clings to Wats own sweaty limbs. This moment is worth more words than even Chaucer believes he could describe with but he knows he'll try, though whose innocent eyes may spot the many pages he is certain to fill will have problems to pay when they realize the basis of such a sultry tale.

It isn't until he feels the muscles clenching spastically around him that he realizes how close to coming he is himself. His head is net to Chaucer, his breath running over the man's cheek and his hair tickling his forehead when Chaucer lets out a mostly silent but breathy moan; his body tensing and seizing its grip on his body, his legs squeezing Wats body as the orgasm wracks him. If he hadn't of already been close then the breathy pants and kisses so softly and sloppily given against his neck would of drove him there in an instant. He lets a muffled scream, his own orgasm coming in a sudden burst. Burrowing his lips in Chaucer's hair he inhales the musty sent as he feels the electricity of an almost numbing buzz cross through his body as he rides the wave.

They lie there for a moment that expands for longer than either cared to pay attention to. Their ragged breath slowly easing into a recognizable pattern. The first coherent thought Chaucer has as Wat curls beside him, body sweaty and heated, is that he's cold and more realized than he's been in such a long time. When he starts to sit up, ignoring the twitch of pain, he feels arms, strong and stubborn pull at his waist; letting out a chuckle he uses gentle hands to coax them away. Glancing down he notices one of Wats eyes open and watching, the other pressed into the pillow in exhaustion. Patting the red ruffle of hair reassuringly he bends to the side to retrieve his fallen coat. Wrapping the coat over his and Wats naked forms, Chaucer reaches toward the cotton sheets, twisting them around in a safety cocoon.

The fur tickled and made Wat smile a lopsided grin in his exhaustion, wrapping Chaucer in a possessive hold. "Would you leave now that you've claimed what you requested?" The words startle Chaucer, they're deep and guttural and Chaucer is amazed at the emotion that clogs them.

"Do you fear such a thing? I've promised my year with this crew, but only for the hopes that when and if we disband I could disband with and find more stories and more life with you. Is it too much of a dream for me to ponder, that you would have come to feel the same. I myself had feared that after a night as now, you might decide to flee the stress and unholy actions and damnation I bring with my longing. With your question I feel my fear is redundant, as yours should feel too."

He wasn't sure what reply to expect, though he could feel as the minute ticked, Wats mouth against his neck opening and closing, trying to catch at words. It was little surprising when the warm body shifted closer, the fur lining of the coat tickling against his legs from the movement and Wat, wordlessly reassured him with his hold and his lips that pressed kisses that could only be described as caring, loving and possessive. Chaucer was letting his own eyes shut; having expected Wat was more than on his way to sleep when he heard it in his ear. The lightest whisper accompanied by a sweet nibble to his ears lobe. "This doesn't mean the fongings will stop." He couldn't help but laugh clearly, even in his sleep deprived state of mind. "I wouldn't dare have suggested otherwise, what would be the fun in that?"

~END~

A/N: Ok, I didn't really feel like This chapter did justice to what I wanted for the scene, I ended up rushing it and trying not to stay strictly on one POV or anything for this chapter. But overall it turned out well enough.


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